


Close Quarters

by zade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Artist Grantaire, Background Les Amis de l'ABC, Enjolras has a short temper, Feuilly is done with everyone, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining Grantaire, Self-Esteem Issues, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, Smitten Enjolras, bc R, but not a sad story somehow?, floreal is a pal, for like a second, they are adults having adult lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 15:29:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12061836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zade/pseuds/zade
Summary: Grantaire was tired and sore, and he really needed to go to sleep because he had to be on the road again in six hours to set up, and huh, why did that voice sound so familiar?  “I’m pretty sure we’ve never spoken before, which is why I’m confused that you are in my airbnb.”“Your airbnb?!”  The owner of the voice stomped into the main room of the apartment and Grantaire was treated to the view of a very attractive blonde man in a pair of loose sleeping pants and a very tight tank-top that said “Smash the Patriarchy,” and maybe Grantaire was just really tired because he looked a lot like—“Enjolras?”--airbnb sharing fic that's it that's the whole story





	Close Quarters

**Author's Note:**

> yo this is the first thing I'm posting in the fandom so nice words are appreciated it was written for my sister, the amazing [Skittery](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Skittery/pseuds/Skittery)/[letssoakemforcrutchie](http://letssoakemforcrutchie.tumblr.com)
> 
> beta'd by [gaylukeskywalkvr](http://gaylukeskywalkvr.tumblr.com) who was amazingly helpful and who made this thing much more a thing than it was without their help
> 
> I normally put warnings here but this has maybe no warnings? There are some slight miscommunications in the middle, R is anxious and has chronically low self-esteem, an art buyer comes onto R but nothing happens, there's a brief discussion of sex work barely, and otherwise it's pretty much just a very short slow build. also r is black and bahorel is hawaiian come hit me up about THOSE headcanons
> 
> for the prompt I was given was: " E and R accidentally double book an airbnb and e's going for like a climate conference or something and r is going for like an arts fair or a craft beer fair; so neither will give up the space and they have to share this tiny studio apartment and they know each other peripherally and they think they hate each other only they don't because this is a fun trope. you could have them like visit each other's conference thing and be like of this isn't so shitty or something" thanks a million han <3

There were no hotel rooms anywhere within a twenty mile radius of the fair. If Grantaire had planned ahead he could have maybe booked one, but Grantaire was a chronic procrastinator. This meant that he was on a train the night before the biggest art fair that he had ever been accepted to, frantically looking through airbnbs in the hopes that he could find some place, really any place, to sleep.

He finally found a place when the train was literally ten minutes away; it was a one-room apartment and way more money than he wanted to spend, but assuming he was at all successful this weekend, it would be fine. The train stopped suddenly, and it took him a few minutes to gather his backpack and suitcase and trunk full of art.

It would have been a ten minute walk to the apartment if he hadn’t been carrying the world’s largest trunk. It was nearing midnight when he reached the apartment, which he hadn’t realized was a walkup until he reached it, but of course it was. Clearly he had been hanging out with Bossuet too much - the bastard’s luck had started rubbing off on him.

The apartment had a keypad instead of a lock, which was actually super helpful, and Grantaire fumbled his phone out of his pocket and attempted to type in the code without putting anything down. Every single light in the apartment was on, so Grantaire could immediately see how bare it was from the doorway—hardly furnished and tiny. Clean, yes, but a small table and two chairs as the only furniture in room besides the bed.

A voice from the bathroom said, petulantly, “Hello? Hi, sorry, when we spoke earlier I thought you told me you wouldn’t be in this weekend.”

Grantaire was tired and sore, and he really needed to go to sleep because he had to be on the road again in six hours to set up, and huh, why did that voice sound so familiar? “I’m _pretty_ sure we’ve never spoken before, which is why I’m confused that you are in my airbnb.”

“Your airbnb?!” The owner of the voice stomped into the main room of the apartment and Grantaire was treated to the view of a very attractive blonde man in a pair of loose sleeping pants and a very tight tank-top that said “Smash the Patriarchy,” and maybe Grantaire was just really tired because he looked a lot like—

“Enjolras?” And it was, of course, Enjolras; the beautiful leader of the weird social justice club that Jehan had insisted he attend at least a couple of times in college, and now as a full-fledged adult verging on thirty, Grantaire had only ever missed three. He couldn’t keep away, for the simple reason that Enjolras was about as beautiful a person as Grantaire could imagine a person being, in all the ways a person could be beautiful.

Enjolras did a double take, frowning as he tried to pull Grantaire’s name out of his brain. “Grantaire? What are you doing here?”

Despite going to almost five years of meetings, Grantaire studiously kept away from all their social events, and in that time, he and Enjolras had only had two conversations outside of yelling during meeting. Grantaire knew he was nothing memorable, but it still hurt a little to watch Enjolras pause to summon Grantaire’s name, when Grantaire could barely keep himself from waxing poetic about Enjolras on a good day. “This is my room for the weekend.”

Enjolras shook his head. “There must be some sort of mistake. I booked this apartment weeks ago.” He put his hands on his hips, which Grantaire could buy as a power pose in a suit, maybe, but in his pajamas just looked silly.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Well, I booked it too.” He gestured at the threshold. “Can I put my shit down? It’s super heavy and I walked here, and it’s like a million o’clock.”

Enjolras scoffed. “Yeah, that’s not going to work for me. Clearly there was some kind of mistake, but I’d appreciate it if you could find somewhere else to stay.”

This was, by far, the longest conversation they had ever had, and was verging on longer than the ones Grantaire had fantasized about them having, but to be fair most of the fantasy conversations cut off early, usually because of fantasy kissing. 

“Everywhere is booked. There are literally no other open rooms in this city, and you’re seriously saying you cannot share with me for one night?”

Enjolras made a small, frustrated noise. “I barely know you!”

“Okay, but we’re not complete strangers, and I need to be up in six—no wait, five hours so can we please just cohabitate tonight like two people who’ve been aware of each other for half a decade, with a lot of mutual friends?” Grantaire’s shoulder was throbbing beneath the strap of his backpack. He adjusted it, but somehow that only made the twinging worse.

Enjolras crossed his arms, looking more fierce and petulant. “I need to be well rested—I’m giving a keynote address tomorrow.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes again. “I am literally—figuratively going to be whoring myself out tomorrow to rich people, so I feel your fucking pain, can we go to bed?” he asked, glad he had narrowly missed inviting Enjolras discussing his opinions on sex workers. Grantaire would need to be a lot more awake for that conversation to not go horribly.

His jaw was clenched so tightly that Grantaire was pretty sure he could hear it creak. “For tonight. Only. Tomorrow you can call and complain, and find somewhere else to stay.”

Grantaire sighed. There was no conceivable way he was going to find a room tomorrow, but there was also no way he was going to sell anything if he didn’t sleep. “Yeah, fine, whatever.” His bags were hard to maneuver through the doorway. Enjolras took an aborted step forward, as if he thought he should help, but didn’t. Grantaire looked around the room, which was just as bare as it had seemed from the doorway. “There’s no couch.”

Enjolras exhaled through his nose, managing to make it sound impatient. “Sleep on the floor. One night won’t kill you.”

Yeah, there was no way Grantaire was going to give into that. “Okay, first, that is ableist as fuck, you assuming I have a body that will be fine sleeping on the ground just by looking at me and second, I paid for the bed.”

“I paid for it, too,” Enjolras snapped, then looked abashed. “But you’re right, I shouldn’t have assumed you were able-bodied, I’m sorry—even though I’m pretty sure you are and you’re only say something to make me feel bad…” He paused to let Grantaire react, but Grantaire was feeling dickish, so he actively didn’t. “Regardless, I should have phrased it as a question.”

Now that he was in the door and his bag was off his throbbing shoulder, Grantaire was so tired he could barely stand. He swayed a little, and Enjolras put a (reluctant) hand out to steady him. “Listen that bed has to be, what, a queen? I’ve shared smaller beds with bigger people.”

Enjolras’s lip curled. “I don’t really need to hear about your sex life, ever.”

Grantaire sighed, exhausted. At this point, he was regretting not sleeping in his bed and taking the train in every day at three in the morning. It would have been miserable, but so far this was too. “It was Bahorel. Platonically. In a twin bed.”

“Oh.” Enjolras ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be so…I just wasn’t expecting this. I’m not always good when a plan changes.”

“Likewise,” Grantaire said, and gave him a lazy salute. “You want left or right?”

“Right,” Enjolras said decisively. “If you don’t mind.”

Grantaire snorted. “Naturally, you’re right,” he said, and laughed again. “Okay. I’m going to go brush my teeth and then crash.”

Enjolras nodded mutely, so Grantaire took his backpack and walked the twenty steps (if he was being generous) to the tiny bathroom. He whipped out his toothbrush, did the most perfunctory tooth brushing of his life, and threw some water on his face. Grantaire rummaged through his backpack, in search of anything resembling sleepwear. He had been planning on sleeping in his boxers, and didn’t really bring anything else to wear.

Having spent his entire life inhabiting his body, except for brief alcohol induced excursions, he was relatively comfortable with how he looked, but that didn’t mean he thought he looked good. He didn’t especially want Enjolras to see him mostly-nude, but if he wasted any of his t-shirts, that would mean attempting to woo future patrons in dirty clothes, which past experience told him he’d regret. Grantaire took a deep breath and paraded himself, mostly naked, back into the room.

Enjolras was sitting on the bed, and when he saw Grantaire his eyes went wide and he blushed, a heavy pink on his perfect cheekbones, turning away quickly. “Oh.”

“Sorry,” Grantaire said, more resigned than apologetic.

Enjolras still gaping and blushing, which was adorable, and Grantaire stopped his mind firmly at adorable—he didn’t have enough clothing protecting him from dirtier thoughts. “Yeah—uh, no, I mean, it’s no problem. Hit the light?”

Grantaire gave him another sarcastic salute and turned the light off, navigating to the bed by the light of his phone. He took a deep breath and carefully slid beneath the covers, staying as close to the edge of the bed as he could. He turned on his side, and was surprised to see Enjolras’s face a foot from his.

He wasn’t sure why he had thought so, but he had really honestly assumed that Enjolras would be facing the wall and not Grantaire. The eye contact was awkward, but instead of dwelling on that, Grantaire closed his eyes and wished for death. “I have trouble believing you’re here for a conference on climate change.”

“I’m not,” Grantaire sighed, studiously keeping his eyes shut. “I’m here for a super bougie art fair.”

“Oh,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire was probably imagining that Enjolras sounded disappointed. Or maybe, he was disappointed that he still hadn’t managed to turn Grantaire.

When Grantaire opened his eyes again, Enjolras’s were closed, and he was breathing slow, steady breaths. His face was so close to Grantaire’s that Grantaire could feel the air on his lips and he froze, blushing like an idiot and no longer at all capable of being chill. He was in a bed with Enjolras, sunlight and righteous anger and fucking goodness incarnate, Enjolras.

“I’m dying.” Grantaire tried to keep his voice soft, but Enjolras made a soft inquisitive noise. “If you’re awake you have to tell me, otherwise it’s entrapment.” Enjolras made a snuffle, but otherwise lay still. Grantaire blew out a noisy breath. “Okay, well, good night, Apollo,” he said, and stubbornly kept his eyes closed until he was asleep.

Grantaire woke abruptly to the sound of his phone blasting a recording of a very drunk Courfeyrac singing Eye of the Tiger, and if he had been at all awake the night before he would have maybe changed the song, or at least turned down the volume. He bolted up and fumbled about for his phone until he found it and turned it off.

Enjolras, surprisingly, didn’t move at all, as though the world’s loudest rendition of Eye of the Tiger was the sort of thing he dealt with all the time. To be fair, Enjolras did live with Courfeyrac, so for all he knew, Enjolras dealt with that frequently. Grantaire sat frozen for a long minute, waiting for Enjolras to open his eyes in accusation, but then the minute passed and Grantaire really needed get a move on if he was going to shower and eat something before he had to leave.

Grantaire realized, stepping soaked out of the shower, that there was only one towel. He groaned and then gave in, drying his body off with his boxers, glad he hadn’t gotten his hair wet. Not ideal, but he felt guilty using the only towel. He dressed himself in black jeans, a plain t-shirt, and plaid button-up—passably nice for an artist, while still being comfortable.

The kitchenette had a coffee machine, and real, fancy Hawaiian coffee like Bahorel had brought back the last time he had visited his family. He glanced over at Enjolras, still asleep, and sighed, pulling two cups down from the pantry. Enjolras didn’t have to leave at six, but there’s no way he was leaving that much after. He drank the coffee quickly, and, finding bread in a cabinet, ate some plain toast to have something to eat. Squaring his shoulders, Grantaire gathered his suitcase and trunk and headed back to the metro.

During his one break in the day, Grantaire went outside to smoke and text Bahorel and Courfeyrac, because of everyone he knew, those two were the mostly likely to appreciate the absurdity that was his life. Bahorel had texted him back seventeen winking emojis, and Courfeyrac had called him and laughed hysterically for a good three minutes until Grantaire had hung up on him.

It was almost seven when Grantaire got back to the apartment. He had thankfully been able to leave his trunk in the showroom, so all he had to carry was his suitcase and his dinner, a bag full of extremely greasy gyros that he needed in him immediately. He put on the kettle for tea, not because he wanted tea, but because his throat was already sore from schmoozing and tea was the best available vessel for honey.

Enjolras wasn’t in the apartment when he got there, but that was okay because Grantaire was tired. He had sold two large paintings, five smaller ones, and fourteen prints, which was more than he had expected, and gotten five people who said they were interested in commissioning him, one of whom had casually thrown around the words “studio visit.” That was good, in theory, although a few of them had been leery and overly friendly, and Grantaire was mostly certain that those few were attempting to commission their way into his pants, which ick.

The door slammed open when Grantaire was only a few bites in. Enjolras looked exhausted and worn out, but he was wearing a suit and Grantaire choked on a piece of gyros at the sheer disgusting hotness of him.

Enjolras jumped at the noise, then sighed. “Oh. Hi, Grantaire. I…forgot that you’d be here.”

Grantaire swallowed his gyros and tried to make words happen. “That’s me, the most forgettable man in the room!” Then, realizing how forlorn Enjolras looked, he said, “Sorry, I looked for a room during my lunch break, but I couldn’t find anything,” lying. He hadn’t remembered to check, and it was only two more nights, they could handle it.

Enjolras sighed again. “Yes, I know. I checked, too. Nothing.” He looked at Grantaire expectantly, and Grantaire had no idea why.

“Gyros?” he offered weakly.

Enjolras loosened his tie. “Do you have enough to share?”

Grantaire nodded and gestured at the only other chair at the tiny round table in the kitchenette. “Of course I do. And, as an added bonus, it is allegedly organic, so there you go.” He mock toasted Enjolras with his cup of tea.

Enjolras chuckled at him, which was so unexpected that Grantaire almost choked on his tea. Enjolras collapsed into the opposite chair, rolling up his sleeves, unbuttoning his collar and throwing his hair into a loose bun. He looked like a GQ spread, Grantaire thought, or any fantasy of Grantaire’s ever. Grantaire dutifully split his food and pushed it across the small table.

“How was your speech?” he asked finally, because if under normal circumstances he was a good conversationalist, the very least he could do in this situation was pretend to be able to form a simple sentence.

Enjolras swallowed his bite of food, and Grantaire watched the muscles of Enjolras’ throat over the rim of his tea. “It went well. I have to cover for someone on a panel tomorrow; some kind of emergency. But the hard part is over.” He paused lengthily. “How was your…fair?”

Grantaire grinned at the complete disdain in Enjolras’s voice. “Relatively well. Earned more today than I did in the last two months working three jobs, which is incredibly cool, and only two old men wanted to use my art to fuck me, which is less than normal, so progress.”

Enjolras’s expression was guarded. He couldn’t possibly think Grantaire was punking him, he could he? “Are you serious?” Enjolras asked cautiously.

“Yes? Skeevy rich art collectors are skeevy.”

Enjolras sighed, like Grantaire was being purposefully obtuse instead of just really confused. “How can you tell they’re not just enthusiastic about your art?”

Grantaire took a long sip of his tea, both to rejuvenate his throat for the conversation ahead and also to calm down his automatic, rude responses, because he had to share a bed with Enjolras tonight. “For starters, Apollo, it’s the twenty-first century, anyone suggesting they could be a patron absolutely wants the d, but also when someone says something like, ‘I’d like to commission you, let’s meet at my place, I promise I have enough money to make it worth your while,’ it’s not exactly like they’re hiding their real goal.”

“And is that something you’d do?” Enjolras’s face was oddly neutral, but Grantaire could sense all the disapproval loitering beneath the surface.

Grantaire bristled. His instinct was to hit back when hit and assume every glancing blow was meant to be deadly. “I thought last night you said you didn’t want to hear about my sex life, ever?”

“I just wasn’t expecting that,” Enjolras said in the same neutral way.

“What, that people are attracted to me? Or that I could be in such desperate straits that I would do whatever was necessary for money?” So much for avoiding a conversation with Enjolras about sex work. “For what it’s worth, my plan was to do the commission for him and try to squeeze as many fucking penny out of him as I can without fucking him, but if that changes? Really not your concern.” He sighed and then drained his tea. “I have some work I have to do before bed, so I’ll be sitting on the bed doing that.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Enjolras said, and unfortunately the studio was so small that Grantaire’s dramatic storm-out had put him only five feet away from Enjolras, which was not ideal. “I wasn’t suggesting that sex work is a bad occupation, or surprised that people find you attractive. I was merely surprised your art wasn’t enough to keep their attention. From what our friends have said, you have a real talent, and anyone who wants to be your ‘patron’ without acknowledging that is an idiot.”

Grantaire dug head first in his suitcase to keep from openly gaping at Enjolras. This only lasted a few seconds, because the suitcase wasn’t that big and Grantaire could only pretend to be lost in it for so long. He pulled himself and his supplies out of the bag and turned around to acknowledge Enjolras. “Right. That’s—well—thank you. I didn’t think you had much of a head for art.”

Enjolras looked a little embarrassed, which was endearing, and not all conducive to Grantaire’s massive crush dying down in any way. “I don’t. I know almost nothing about art, but Combeferre and Musichetta do and they rave about your artwork, especially when you’re not there to contradict them.”

Grantaire snorted, propping his small canvas up and looking at it critically. “They’re fans of mine, that doesn’t really count.”

Enjolras frowned, sitting up straighter to try and see what Grantaire was doing. He gave up on stealth quickly, disposing of their trash and tentatively sitting on the edge of the bed as Grantaire skillfully threaded a needle. “What are you doing?”

Grantaire smiled, but kept his eyes on the painting. “I’m in a mixed media kick. I paint, then embellish with thread. I think it’s working out so far.” 

The painting was abstract, and to Enjolras it looked almost like an eye, widened in surprise. Enjolras leaned forward and was able to make out the small glimpses of thread throughout. “Is that sewing thread? Jesus, that must take you forever.”

Grantaire laughed. “It takes a while yeah. Sometimes I use embroidery floss, but it punches holes in the canvas, so I save that for more dramatic pieces. This is supposed to be subtle.” He added a couple of tiny stitches, stopping to consider the piece after each one, acutely aware of how fiercely Enjolras was watching him. He forced himself to focus, to not let Enjolras’s presence and the weight of his eyes throw Grantaire off his game. It was easy to get lost in art, to sink into the image and let his hands work the way they wanted to, to create, to shape, to make.

“Shouldn’t you have done this before this art convention?” Enjolras asked dubiously.

Grantaire barked a loud laugh, head thrown back. “Art fair, not a convention, for starters, but yes absolutely. I brought a couple almost finished pieces in case I sold more than I expected, and now that has come to pass, so last minute finishing touches.”

Enjolras chuckled. Grantaire darted him a look, and was surprised to see Enjolras was just sitting still, smiling at him. “I should look over the notes for the panel,” he said, but he didn’t move.

“Please,” Grantaire dismissed, knotting his threat and cutting a piece of a different color. “I bet you know all that information backwards and forwards.”

“I do,” Enjolras admitted. “But I wasn’t supposed to be on the panel, so I should review it anyway.”

“Far be it from me to interrupt your study habits.”

Enjolras sat down next to him, and they worked silently for several hours until Grantaire realized that he was going to fall asleep with a needle in his hands, and while it wouldn’t have been the first time, it was not an experience he really wanted to repeat.

“Okay,” Grantaire said with a groan, stretching his back and shoulders and pretending not to see the look of disgust on Enjolras’s face with every joint crack and pop. “Last night was long and today was long and my ability to stay awake any longer is very, very short.”

Enjolras smiled. “That barely made sense.” His face morphed into a frown, and he made a distressed little noise that Grantaire could absolutely picture him making during sex, which was also distressing. “I was going to keep reading for a little while. I don’t really need more than four or five hours of sleep.” He glanced anxiously at the light switch.

“Oh, no, don’t worry about that. I can sleep with the lights on. In fact, when I was a kid that was the only way I could sleep.” Grantaire gathered his materials up, packing away his paintings and putting his needles and threads back into his pack. “As long as you don’t mind me snoring as you read, it’s all good.”

Enjolras offered a little nod and shrug as his approval, then goes back to his reading.

Grantaire grabbed fresh boxers from his backpack and then hesitated. He really ought to wrap his hair, but he didn’t usually do that in front of strangers or even close acquaintances. The night before he had been too tired to even think about it, but now he was. His hair was long enough that keeping it moisturized and trying to stop breaks was a real thing that he had to pay attention to, but he had grown up hearing that silk wraps were a girl thing and he hadn’t even gotten over his self-consciousness entirely. He could have put the scarf over his pillow, but it still called attention to himself in a way he didn’t like to do in front most people.

His hair could take it, he decided, and went to the bathroom to change. Enjolras was in the same spot when he got back to the room, so Grantaire got into bed and closed his eyes.

“Where’s your art conf—fair located?” Enjolras asked softly, and Grantaire thought it was cute that Enjolras thought he slept so easily.

“Massive exhibition hall across the street from that hotel—the one with the lights. Couple miles from here.” Grantaire kept his eyes closed.

Enjolras made a thoughtful noise and Grantaire ached to take a look at the expression accompanying it, but he knew better than to stare into the sun. “You’re across the street from me.”

Grantaire could feel himself beginning to drift off. “Small world.”

Courfeyrac’s obnoxiously loud voice woke him at five again. Grantaire turned off the alarm blindly with a groan. He opened his eyes and was surprised at how close Enjolras’s face was to his. Enjolras snored softly, lips parting, soft and angelic, hair a curly mess but beautiful still, and Grantaire’s crush was really getting out of hand.

He rose and showered quickly, putting on virtually the same outfit, before making a pot of coffee and setting out two cups again. He searched around for breakfast materials, but there wasn’t anything except his leftover gyros, which was gross but not nearly as gross as a lot of other things Grantaire had done. The walk to the exhibition hall was significantly faster than it had been with his trunk, which meant that he had time to get a second cup of coffee on his way there.

Really, everything seemed to be coming up Grantaire for the first half of his day. He sold a few pieces, gave away a good half of the business cards the Feuilly had made for him, and was considerably better rested. At about the time Grantaire was ready to close down his booth for coffee, some Cheetos, and a cigarette, he was faced with his first major issue of the day: the skeeviest of all skeevy patrons he’d had so far.

“The brush strokes—and those tiny stitches! You must be incredibly good with your hands,” the older man said, and Grantaire gave his least convincing smile.

“Yup. That’s me. Handy.”

The man gave another lecherous smile and Grantaire could barely stop himself from making an elaborate, full body gagging gesture. He glanced around for an out, but with a lot of the other vendors on break, and the patrons leaving the exhibition hall for lunch, and there was no one nearby. Across the way, Grantaire’s new friend Floreal was shooting him apologetic looks, but she was deep in conversation of her own, and couldn’t be his white knight, either. However, she would, he thought, look bitching in armor.

“I’d love to see you work—a private demonstration, perhaps.”

Grantaire’s search became a little more frantic. At the end of the aisle Grantaire saw a confused looking man with blonde hair in a messy bun, wearing slacks and a button up, with a suit jacket thrown jauntily over his arm and something in his hands, and Grantaire almost melted with relief when he realized it was Enjolras, as inexplicable as his presence was.

“Enjolras!” he called, and tried to not look too excited. Enjolras smiled and started walking towards Grantaire with more purpose, which was a relief. 

“Grantaire, hi.” 

When he got close enough Grantaire reached out and pulled Enjolras to him, wrapping his arms around Enjolras, and was gratified that Enjolras hugged him back. “This guy’s being a creep, help,” he whispered into Enjolras’s ear, before pulling away.

Enjolras grabbed him by the hip with his free arm and pulled Grantaire into a side hug that he was almost completely unprepared for. Ignoring the other man entirely, Enjolras turned his face to Grantaire, and they were so close Grantaire was going to have a stroke. “You feeling up for a break, hon? I meant to get here sooner, but my meeting ran over.”

Grantaire tried his very hardest to look apologetic and smug when he turned to his skeevy customer. “I actually was planning on going on break. Let’s say we finish this later?” The other man frowned, but nodded his assent and started turned around slowly. Grantaire waited until he was a decent ways away before pulling away from Grantaire. “Oh my fucking god, thank you.”

Enjolras smiled, a little off balance looking, but still more friendly than Grantaire expected from him. “What did he say to you?”

Grantaire shuddered. “He told me I was good with my hands and asked for a private demo of my skills.” 

Enjolras grimaced. “Glad to be of service.” He made an indecipherable gesture with the hand holding a box. “Would you like to actually take a break? I stopped at a patisserie on the way here.”

Grantaire perked up. “Heck yeah, there’s a nice park outside? We could sit on a bench?” He turned and whistled at the woman in the booth across from him, who had just finished up with her buyer as well. “Floreal? Darling? Light of my life? Can you watch my six for like twenty minutes so I can eat a pastry with this literal Adonis to my left.”

Floreal rolled her eyes at him. “Did you just quote The Shining at me? Seriously?” At his continued pleading look she sighed. “Yeah, get, I’ll watch your shit.”

Grantaire blew her an exaggerated kiss, then turned and linked arms with Enjolras, who was blushing, either at Grantaire’s antics, or at being called an Adonis. “Shall we?” 

Enjolras let himself be dragged by Grantaire out of the exhibit hall and around the corner to a park. They sat down and Enjolras opened the box which had six pastries in it and clearly there was a god. 

“Please believe me when I say I am not complaining, but what did I do to deserve a pastry delivery from Apollo himself?”

Enjolras blushed and determinedly did not look at Grantaire as he selected one of the cakes. “I wanted to thank you for the coffee. And for being so agreeable the last few days. I know we don’t always see eye to eye, and I wanted to let you know that I’ve noticed. And also today on the panel, someone asked me to prove a point, and I only had the source on hand because you questioned me in our last meeting.”

That seemed a little too generous, Grantaire thought. They had engaged in two conversations that weren’t Grantaire yelling “source!” during a meeting, or deconstructing everything Enjolras said for the sheer adrenaline rush it gave him. Grantaire took a bite one of the pastries, too, and suppressed a moan, because he was an adult and he knew how to eat food without making it a thing. “Okay, and why are you really here?”

Enjolras put on his Righteous Anger face on, which Grantaire thought was hot, but to be fair, Grantaire also thought Enjolras’s bedhead was hot. “They were serving beef for lunch. Beef, at a convention about climate change. Beef!”

Grantaire kept himself from laughing by sheer willpower. “Did you yell at the poor caterer again? I thought Combeferre talked to you about that.”

Enjolras shoulder-checked Grantaire gently, aware that they both had food in their hands, but it still made Grantaire feel vaguely flustered. It wasn’t an intimate gesture, but it was a friendly one, and despite his soul-annihilating crush, Grantaire would not have described them as friends. Probably. Unless Enjolras had first. “For someone who I barely know, you certainly know a lot of personal stories about me.” 

Grantaire cackled. “You’re friends with Courfeyrac—there are large parts of the internet that know stories about you, too.”

Enjolras sighed, but he was smiling, and Grantaire couldn’t help but smile back. “I did not yell at the caterer, for the record. I went and talked to the organizer, and asked him what he had instructed the caterer to do. Apparently, he told them to go for whatever was cheapest, without any regard to whether or not it sustainably sourced, or absolutely terrible for the environment, all in attempt to keep the overhead low.”

“So you yelled at the organizer, stormed out, and bought us sweets?” Grantaire asked, trying—and failing—to keep a straight face.

Enjolras sighed again, but there was quiet laughter under it. “So I yelled at the organizer, stormed out, and bought us sweets.”

“You going to back after this?” Grantaire sucked some chocolate off his fingers and pretended like Enjolras was looking.

“Yeah, probably. I have another panel today, and I’ll feel really guilty if I miss it, even if the organizer has completely missed the point of this entire convention.” He split another sweet and offered half to Grantaire, which shouldn’t have caused little flutters in his stomach but absolutely did. “Did you know the admittance fee for your art fair is $75 for the three days?”

“I did not. And did you pay it without question?”

Enjolras looked a little guilty. “No. I asked for a breakdown of where the fee was going. Apparently they donate eighty percent of the proceeds to local education initiatives. I read their website.”

“So you paid it with one question?”

Enjolras gave him a long withering look, but then he softened it into something that Grantaire was actively interpreting as fond. “Can I ask you what is probably your least favorite question?”

Grantaire grinned and broke another little cake in half, handing Enjolras a piece, and pretending to not notice Enjolras actually moan over it. “Unless you’re going to ask me to do art for your website ‘for the exposure,’ I doubt it’s my least favorite question.”

Enjolras snorted. “Okay, no, I wasn’t going to ask you for free art. I was going to ask you what made you want to do art.”

“Oh, no, you’re right, that might be my least favorite question.” 

Enjolras looked apologetic, and like his mouth might turn that apologetic look into apologetic words, so Grantaire swooped in. “Kidding, mostly. At first it was just that I was good at it? But then I realized how helpful it was for me, emotionally, to put all my feelings on canvas, and not only that, but other people were responding to it too. I could put all this effort into something that I enjoyed doing, and people would enjoy experiencing that thing, and sometimes even give me money for it? Once I realized that, it was all over. There’s nothing else I can imagine doing. I teach a little, too, because I want to give that feeling to others. You know. Or whatever.”

Enjolras was smiling, Grantaire suspected indulgently, but honestly smiling, and it gave him goosebumps and butterflies all at once.

“What about you?” Grantaire asked. “Why did you decide to save the world like the Magical Girl we all knew you could be?”

Enjolras sighed and sort of deflated, but he didn’t look angry or disappointed, which Grantaire counted as a win. “Short version: I noticed bad stuff was happening and I didn’t like it.”

“Boooooo.”

Enjolras laughed a little startled laugh. “No, honestly. No tragic backstory, no anything, really, I just—I could help, and I wanted to, so I did.”

Grantaire sighed, probably exuding heart eyes, but maybe retaining some semblance of dignity. “Of course you don’t have a backstory. You, of everyone I’ve ever met, would be the one to do good for the sake of goodness.” Enjolras hummed in agreement, and their eyes met. Grantaire’s mouth was suddenly much, much drier than it had been the moment before. “You’re like a unicorn.”

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed in thought, but his mouth was still split in a grin, and this was the most easy-going Grantaire had ever seen him. He looked young, or maybe just his age, and it was a revelation. Enjolras spent too much time being serious, being single focused, being devastating dedicated to the cause. “Is that a dig at my presumed virginity, or…?”

“Presumed,” Grantaire repeated dubiously, chuckling. “Nothing of the sort, just the observation that a man such as you shouldn’t exist.”

“I’ll have you remember that I’m twenty-eight,” Enjolras said haughtily, which if anything made him sound younger and undermined his point. He twisted his lips into an approximation of a frown, but it looked nothing like a real frown, and only served to make Grantaire grin more. “And if all your point needed was a thing that does not exist, why did you pick the only mythical creature I can think of closely associated with virginity?”

Grantaire shrugged, smiling wide and helpless. “Okay, it _may_ have been a dig at your virginity.”

“Presumed virginity,” Enjolras corrected, laughing. His laugh was deeper than Grantaire had imagined it, but all the sweeter for being real.

“My apologies, Apollo. Presumed virginity,” he said with a wink, and then they were both laughing.

Enjolras was staring right at him, laughs trailing off into breathy chuckling, and Grantaire was blushing as much as he ever had. He reached a tentative hand up to Grantaire’s face. Grantaire’s heart was beating a mile of a minute, and his hands were absolutely clammy, and he sat like a deer in the headlights, paralyzed and waiting. “You’ve got some chocolate. Just there.” Enjolras’s thumb brushed against Grantaire’s cheek, less than an inch from his lips, which parted reflexively as Grantaire actually gasped.

Neither of them moved for another long moment while Grantaire’s brain reengaged. “Is it still there?” Grantaire asked, because he was probably going to have an aneurysm if Enjolras didn’t move his hand, or kiss him, or do literally anything else.

Enjolras jumped back, guility. “Oh. Yes. I mean no. That is,” he said sighing, “gone.” 

“Oh. Good.” Grantaire couldn’t help but feel that he had fucked up somehow, which was baffling to him. The last ten minutes of his life had been more complicated than the prior two years.

Enjolras nodded sharply, then glanced at his phone. “Do you need to get back soon?”

Grantaire groaned theatrically, burying his confusion and anxiety for later. There would be time to freak out, but there wouldn’t necessarily be time to spend to Enjolras one-on-one. “I do. I don’t want to leave Floreal forever, even though I think she’d let me. Have time to walk me back?”

Enjolras nodded, closing up the box and rising to his feet. “Why not? I paid for an art fair, and I didn’t even get to see your art. That hardly seems right.”

“Then we will correct that at once.” Grantaire lead him back into the building and back to his own display. He left Enjolras for a second to properly thank Floreal and give her half a pastry. He had his back to Enjolras which turned out to be a mistake, because as he turned he saw the awestruck look on Enjolras’s face as he looked over Grantaire’s wares and that was that, Grantaire was never going to get over him now.

He walked over to Enjolras, who was focused on the picture he had done of Notre Dame, complete with tiny crocheted thread flowers which had been the worst decision Grantaire had ever made. They had taken forever, but Cosette had been overjoyed, more than happy to spend hours teaching him to knit and crochet with the patience of a saint. Enjolras, still enraptured, turned to one of Grantaire’s most abstract pieces and smiled.

“I like this one,” Enjolras said.

“Of course you do, it’s red.” It was red and gold, rippling like water made of flame, shot through with black embroidery floss. It was dramatic piece, and a strong one. A friend of a friend of his, who was an agent but not Grantaire’s agent, had said it was museum quality, but what did he know, anyway?

“I like colors other than red,” Enjolras said, lying, and petulantly adjusting his red tie.

“Mhmm.” Grantaire patted his arm condescendingly. “I’d give you one, If you like. Or a print, if you’re going to be weird about not paying.”

Enjolras scoffs. “There is nothing weird about wanting to pay people for their goods and services.”

Grantaire laughed, mockingly. “And yet you don’t believe in capitalism!”

“That doesn’t meant I believe in taking things from people without compensation!” Enjolras’s voice had gotten louder than he intended it, and several people were staring. Grantaire laughed again to diffuse the tension and Enjolras’s shoulders slumped. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t cost you a sale.”

Grantaire would have reached out to provide physical affection, but they weren’t friends like that, which was in itself jarring. Grantaire had very few friends that he wasn’t disgustingly affectionate with. “Don’t worry about it. Take a look at the frame. I’ve started making them myself, Feuilly taught me how. And before you say anything, yes, I make them out of recycled materials, blah blah blah, global warming.”

Enjolras smiled weakly. “That’s incredible, Grantaire.”

“Thank you; I, like a parrot, am very good at repeating words, and true, it is incredible. Also,” he said, suddenly much quieter, “it’s R.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My nickname. R,” Grantaire said again. “If you’re gonna start actually talking to me, you can call me R. That way you don’t have to use the same name when you’re kicking me out of your meetings.”

Enjolras nodded slowly, his eyebrows furrowed like they got when he trying to puzzle through something particularly complex. He looked so far out of his element that Grantaire almost felt sorry. He could compartmentalize with the best of them, but it was hard to mesh the Enjolras who yelled at him with the one who liked his woodworking and had _touched his face_. 

“How much, though, R? For the red one?” Enjolras leaned in close to the tag by the painting and balked. “Do people actually pay that much for art?”

Floreal cut in from across the way. “People pay significantly more for artwork, and  
R consistently undersells himself.”

Enjolras put on his determined face. “How much for a print, then?”

“Fifty,” Floreal called back. “Because again, underselling himself.”

Grantaire was pretty sure he looked completely embarrassed because he felt it. “It’s ninety-five with a frame. I’m not a complete idiot.” He turned to Enjolras. “I promise I’ll save you one, but you don’t need to do this now, because we’re staying in the same place, okay? And I’d really like to just give it to you, so we’ll see what happens—in a world as wondrous and varied as ours, anything could! The tides may ebb and flow, I may undergo a change of heart, and charge you a literal arm and leg! But probably I’ll just stick it in your suitcase when you aren’t looking.”

Enjolras smiled reluctantly at Grantaire. “I’ll hold you to that.”

A woman in a very expensive suit walked up to Grantaire’s display, interrupting the moment they were sharing and Grantaire apologetically left Enjolras’s side to speak to the potential customer. He was aware of Enjolras, though, out of the corner of his eye, staring at the painting with something bordering on reverence. Enjolras walked over to Floreal, speaking to her softly, with his eyes darting between her, the painting, and Grantaire. Grantaire made sure to laugh at the joke his new patron was making, but had no idea what she had said, most of his concentration fixed on Enjolras. 

“Would you be willing to hold that one for me? I won’t have a car tonight,” she asked him, and he had no idea which piece she had her eye on. He must have looked panicked, because she laughed at him. “Relax, red’s not my color.”

Blushing he turned his full attention to her, working through the transaction details quickly and apologetically, and gave the backstory he had for that particular piece. She seemed the type who wanted to know where something came from, not just the materials. She seemed amused by his distraction, which was the only thing that kept Grantaire from giving up on art right then and there, and just becoming a monk of the Temple of Enjolras. Enjolras had lead him to distraction before, even inspired a few pieces (though maybe not the one he had his eye on? Grantaire wasn’t sure, he had been pretty drunk while painting that series), but Enjolras had never been so present as to almost lose him business.

The power Enjolras wielded over him was terrifying, more so now that Enjolras seemed to be actively seeking out Grantaire’s presence. It had been one thing when he didn’t think Enjolras knew who he was—it was like his crush on Matt Damon: an impossibility, and thus, a non-issue. To be honest, Matt Damon had seemed a lot more attainable than Enjolras.

Enjolras walked over to him, standing too close. “I should go, I’m already going to be a little late for the next panel. I’ll see you tonight?”

“You will. Try not to _beef_ with anyone else, okay?”

Enjolras smiled, and the smile got Grantaire through the rest of the day. He stopped on the way home and bought himself a celebratory pizza to hopefully share with Enjolras and all but skipped his way back. When he got to the apartment, he got a text from Combeferre which read, “Enjolras got held up, won’t be there until nine. Here is his number; I am not a carrier pigeon,” with Enjolras’s number at the bottom.

Grantaire ate a few slices of pizza, before deciding to take the time while Enjolras was out to co-wash his hair, which he really meant to do the day before, and would have if Enjolras had not been there. There were a lot of vulnerabilities he was willing to expose in front of complete strangers and/or Enjolras: his alcoholism, his self-esteem issues, his uncontrollable pessimism (which really, see: self-esteem issues); but the care he took in his hair, in maintaining the parts of his appearance he had decided to care for, was too much. 

Enjolras could judge him for drinking, but he wasn’t sure he could handle anyone calling attention to the time and energy he gave his hair. It helped that he was greeted in the bathroom by a surprise second towel, that he assumed Enjolras must have gotten out of guilt. He got into the shower and started the laborious process of co-washing and detangling his hair. He heard Enjolras open the door while he was still rinsing, and tried to call a greeting through the door. He didn’t get a response, but realized why pretty quickly, because either Enjolras had bought someone to their tiny apartment (absurd) or he was on the phone (as per usual).

Smart money said with Combeferre. He stepped out of the shower and began trying to towel squeeze some of the water out of his hair, so he could oil his scalp and put in his leave-in conditioner and actually exit the bathroom at some point that evening.

“You don’t understand it, though. It was incredible; he was incredible. He was witty and friendly, Ferre,” point one for Grantaire, “he was so smart and she just ate it up—I ate it up! No, no, I’m not just talking about his salesmanship, give me some credit. His work is incredible. Well, no, I can’t think of another word. I’m not used to art moving me like that. I don’t usually get it, but I got this. You know that scene in Parks and Rec? When they’re designing the mural and Tom gets all emotional about shapes? That was me, I was Tom Haverford! Also I think he knows my favorite pizza toppings?”

Grantaire felt at the point, he had really listened to enough and he should let Enjolras know he was there. Actually, technically, he thought he passed that point by quite a bit, but his body was less than cooperative, and so he had needed to wait for it to catch up with his morality, which was not usually the order that happened in. In general, his morality tended to lag behind other processes, and he’d be halfway through doing something terrible before he realized that he it was terrible.

Grantaire walked out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, because he had thought he would be quicker, or maybe he hadn’t thought at all (regardless, he hadn’t brought any clothes into the bathroom), and when he waved at Enjolras with his free hand, the piece of pizza Enjolras was holding fell to the ground. “Combeferre,” he said softly into his phone, “I’ll call you back.”

“Hi, sorry, sorry,” Grantaire said, bending over and picking up Enjolras’s lost pizza when it became clear that Enjolras was not about to. They both stared at it for an uncomfortably long moment before Grantaire decided to just put it down on the table. “I was washing my hair and it took longer than I thought it would, but I didn’t want you to think I was just creeping in the bathroom. I mean, I suppose technically that’s correct? But, it wasn’t intentional.”

Enjolras was serving him with a completely inscrutable expression, frozen still with his hand outstretched where it had dropped the pizza, and his phone in the other. 

Faced with this, Grantaire kept babbling. “I mean, I was intentionally in the bathroom. But I wasn’t intentionally listening to you. I mean, I heard you, I just—”

Enjolras took a step towards him. “Did you just wash your hair? Like, is it wet now?”

Grantaire smiled cautiously at him, unsure of where this was going. “Yes? It’s still pretty soaked, honestly. Want to feel?” He was aiming for smarmy with the last line, but Enjolras was either ignoring that, or Grantaire had sounded too earnest, because Enjolras was stepping closer to him, leaving his phone on the table so he could reach and tangle his non-pizza hand in Grantaire’s coils.

“I’ve never seen wet hair that stays in such tight curls.” Enjolras’s face scrunched up in thought. “Jesus, that was probably a micro-aggression, I’m sorry. I just. You have such nice hair.”

“Please, I am hardly Becky with the good hair.” Grantaire chuckled in self-deprecation, but he was smiling, flattered and warm by Enjolras’s attention, again, and the fingers still touching his hair gingerly, careful to not destroy the integrity of any of his curls. “I got 4a’s, so staying curly is pretty much all they’re good for! And no, it’s fine, really. Sorry, might be a little slimy feeling? The conditioner isn’t completely absorbed yet.”

“I don’t mean any offense,” Enjolras said, carefully, “but I didn’t expect you to be the type to care for your appearance like that.”

“Oh no,” Grantaire agreed, “I’m not. Jehan was on a self-care kick a couple of years ago, though, and he thought maybe I’d like to figure out how to take care of my hair? Like my sister has 3b’s and it’s really easy maintenance, so she just exists, and my mom thought it was a sign that I was gay that I wanted nice hair, which jokes on her, so I had never really tried. And like in high school I was that kid with like, a box-braid bob made of beads. Not my best look. So we did a lot of research and experimentation and I figured out I can actually grow my hair out. And I like that, so I take care of it now. And sometimes I use moisturizer because Jehan cries when I don’t.”

Enjolras laughed at that, still so close, fingers rubbing at curls and occasionally catching his ear, or alighting on Grantaire’s cheek. Grantaire was sure he was blushing, possibly gaping, because Enjolras was staring at him with rapt attention. “I’m glad you worked it out. You have incredible hair.”

“Is incredible the word on the day?” Enjolras blushed at the blatant reference to his previous, and somewhat embarrassing, conversation. “Did you mean what you said? That you really like my art?”

“It’s incredible,” Enjolras said bluntly. “You’re incredible.”

Their faces were so close that Grantaire thought Enjolras might kiss him, that he might kiss Enjolras first and that it might actually be reciprocated. Enjolras’s hand moved slightly to cup Grantaire’s damp cheek for the second time today, and Grantaire was dizzy with the affection. Grantaire was used to wanting, wanting and waiting and hoping, but he was painfully unused to getting, and he felt panicky at the thought that he might, somehow, get Enjolras.

Enjolras inhaled, which felt intimate with the space between them so narrow, and Grantaire was sure this was it.

At that moment, of course, Grantaire’s phone rang and Enjolras practically leapt backwards, the moment lost between them. Enjolras, flustered, muttered something about notes, and hid behind his phone and the pizza box, and Grantaire retreated to the bed to let his hair air dry, and figure out what was so important. It was a text from Bahorel, with an attachment of Courfeyrac singing Toto’s Africa. He didn’t listen to it, setting it as his alarm for the next day by rote.

Drunk Courfeyrac always made for a great alarm clock.

Disheartened, Grantaire put on clothes, sat cross-legged, and scrolled through instagram, trying to find a tattoo artist he didn’t hate for his next piece, and waited until Enjolras had decided to be done ignoring him. He felt panicky with the thought that he had somehow misinterpreted Enjolras’s signs, and things between them would get that much more strained.

When Grantaire’s hair was finally dry, he wrapped it in a ponytail and covered his hair with his silk scarf, daring Enjolras to say something, but Enjolras was too absorbed in his phone and his need to not spout any more micro-aggressions, which ended in Grantaire feeling even worse, for wanting Enjolras to start a fight. He gave up, curled himself into covers, and decided to play phone games until he was too tired and had dropped his phone on his face a few too many times.

Enjolras came and sat on the bed just as Grantaire had decided to give up and sleep.

It became clear to Grantaire that Enjolras wasn’t actually going to say anything, so he took a deep breath and went for the obvious. “With the exception of the beef, how’s your conference going?”

Enjolras frowned. “It’s going well.” That expression with that tone didn’t fit at all, and so Grantaire looked as confused as he could until Enjolras elaborated. “We have two days left, but so far there’s a lot of enthusiasm, a lot of businesses looking to make positive changes, some politicians, too. We have a lot of good science, and a real platform to disseminate it from, so it’s been good. I felt…honored, to be invited.”

It was probably the most honest and unguarded that Grantaire had ever seen Enjolras, and he knew he should drink in the moment, he should take a deep breath and think about his words before they came hurtling out of his mouth, but he didn’t, bitterness and anxiety still bubbling beneath his skin. “Do you really think that it’ll make a difference? I don’t mean ideologically, but practically, boots on the ground wise, do you think you can undo hundreds of years of wanton destruction by getting corporations to recycle more? Getting some politicians to sign a piece of paper saying ‘I heart mother earth’?”

“Why do you have to do that?” Enjolras spat, exacerbated and angry and cold. “Why do you have to twist everything I say, everything I’m trying to do, and make it sound impossible?”

“That’s because it is impossible,” Grantaire said. “You’re living in a fairy tale world where people care, and want to help—no, scratch that, not even that they want to help, because I believe they want to, but wanting to do something and putting in the effort to do it are completely different. You’ve gathered a coalition of people who want to make a difference, but my bet is that most of them will pat themselves on the back and call it a day without changing anything.”

There was a tense, cold moment between them, more similar to their interactions in the Musain than anything they’d had the past few days. Grantaire was breathing hard, winded from his vitriol and Enjolras was staring him down with an expression that looked too harsh for his fine features. Grantaire already regretted his words, but when he opened his mouth to apologize, Enjolras was already speaking.

“I think it’s strange,” he said, carefully, measured and sure and cruel, “that you think I’m wasting my time trying to preserve the lives of millions, when you gladly waste your time on art. Do you think you’re going to get famous? Change lives? You’re almost thirty and no one even knows your name. No one has thought you were good enough to champion, probably no one will. You’re going to die in obscurity and stay in obscurity, because you insist on spending all your time producing mediocre art instead trying to effect real, lasting change.”

“Incredible,” Grantaire said, and tried his best to not sound choked up. He had been on the receiving end of Enjolras’s sharp tongue more than once, but his insults had never been personal, and this was as personal as it got. Numbly, Grantaire pulled the scarf off his head, suddenly irrationally embarrassed at the vulnerability he had shown. He stood up, grabbing his phone and his wallet and was at the door before Enjolras had formed any other barbs.

He wanted a drink. He wanted infinite drinks, but he also never drank when he was selling, when he was working, when he needed to be his best self, or at least a good self. He wouldn’t go find a bar, even though he wanted to. A café, maybe. Anywhere else, anywhere that Enjolras wasn’t.

Enjolras’s hand gripped Grantaire’s wrist before the door was opened. “Wait, wait, Grantaire—R!—Please!”

Grantaire stopped, facing Enjolras and trying to show how very unimpressed with the other man through body language alone.

Enjolras sighed, hand still on Grantaire’s wrist. “I don’t know what about you makes me revert back to the worst parts of college me.”

“Must be my sparkling personality,” Grantaire snapped.

Enjolras exhaled a strained little laugh. “I _like_ your personality. I think you’re funny and smart and talented, and cynical, sure, but amazingly knowledgeable.” He swallowed, averting his eyes. His thumb was rubbing against the inside of Grantaire’s wrist, and it was almost soothing, which only set Grantaire further on edge. He hated mixed signals. “I guess I just always hoped at some point you’d think those things about me. That I could manage to impress you the way you impressed me—that I could interest you in my interests by virtue of the fact that they were mine. It’s been five years and I’ve convinced you of nothing—you don’t even talk to me outside of meetings—and I lose control of myself. ”

Grantaire swallowed hard, feeling himself calm into Enjolras’s touch. “I think that you have fundamentally misunderstood the vast majority of our acquaintance.” 

Enjolras’s shoulders hunched inwards, crumpling into himself. “Oh, “ he said after a long moment. “I’m sorry.” He loosened his grip on Grantaire’s hand but didn’t remove it, which was good because Grantaire was already becoming addicted to his touch.

“I think you may have also misunderstood what I just said.” Grantaire stepped away from the door, planting himself firmly in Enjolras’s personal space. “I’m not saying you’re the only reason I went to your meetings, but you’re arguably a good eighty percent of why.”

“And the other twenty?” Enjolras said cautiously. He had the ghost of a smile twisting the corner of his mouth. His thumb rubbed Grantaire’s wrist again, in small, soft circles, and it was way more intimate than anything in their previous interactions had prepared Grantaire for.

“I like arguing? And I have ideals,” Grantaire swore. “I believe in concepts, I just don’t believe in people. People disappoint, constantly, and even more so when you have strong ideals for them to reach for and miss.”

“So the antagonizing? It was because you thought, what…that I was going to disappoint you?”

Grantaire laughed, more from discomfort than mirth; his knees were practically shaking. “Jesus, no. You could never, Apollo, it’s just everyone else in the entire world. If we left fixing the world up to a herd of you, everything would be fine in like a week. Unfortunately, there’s everyone else in the world to fuck it up. And, for the record, you’ve convinced me of plenty—in theory. In practice, I have too much experience with people to think the world could be changed. But if I believed anyone would make a difference, I would bet on you. I would believe in you.”

The realization of what he just said hit him like a brick, and if his knees were shaky before, they were downright quaking now. He was almost breathless with anxiety and could feel high-pitched giggles forming in his stomach, but Grantaire tamped them down. Everything was going to be fine, or he was going to die, right here in this shitty one bedroom apartment, but no matter how stupid and vulnerable he felt now, he had yet to die from embarrassment. This would probably be just another shitty moment for his anxiety to remind him for the rest of his life.

Enjolras flushed down his neck, and his ears a sunburnt bright red. “Can I hug you? I know you’re fairly liberal with physical affection, but I don’t want to presume that you—”

Grantaire wrapped his arms around Enjolras’s arms shot around his neck and squeezed, not painfully but almost desperately. Enjolras was breathing heavily into Grantaire’s neck, which was somehow more devastating than what Grantaire could only judge as an almost-kiss. 

Enjolras pulled away first, his face still burning and said, quietly, “Come to bed?” Almost immediately, he realized what he said and somehow went redder as Grantaire cackled, helplessly.

“Sure, Apollo, take me to bed.” They sat, cross-legged, side-by-side on the bed, and Grantaire waited to remember how to speak, which was something that seemed to happen to him a lot around Enjolras. “Shit, I need a drink.”

“Do you have anything? To drink?” Enjolras was tentative, almost hesitant, clearly so worried about tripping over Grantaire’s boundaries.

Grantaire shook his head. “Nope. I don’t drink on the job. This isn’t college anymore.”

There was another, longer, uncomfortable silence. Enjolras’s face betrayed guilt and discomfort and a little chagrin. Grantaire tried to think of something to say to relieve some of the tension, but he blanked.

Enjolras recovered first. “Tell me about you day?”

Grantaire scoffed in bemused disbelief. Did Enjolras not remember the exact conversation that had started this mess? “It was all right. Sold less, but I got interest from a collector, a couple of curators. Several requests for a studio visit.”

Enjolras frowned. “What does that mean? Do you even have a studio? I thought you just worked out of your apartment.”

“Not since college, no,” Grantaire said. “I rent a space like a real adult. And it means that maybe I can build enough of a relationship with someone that I could potentially get something into a museum or gallery at some point. I mean, I’ve had pieces in temporary exhibits, but nothing permanent. Yet.”

“I had no idea,” Enjolras said, and the wonderment was back there again. Baffling as it was, Grantaire definitely preferred the awestruck look to the yelling.

“I invited you—when I had my last piece in a traveling exhibit—I invited you along with everyone else. It’s all right, I mean, I wasn’t actually expecting you to come.”

Enjolras looked stricken. “I have no memory of that. I would have come. I should have come. You’ll tell me next time?”

Grantaire winked, and shot finger guns at Enjolras, ignoring it when he rolled his eyes. “I will. And if not, I firmly believe you’ll be asking me once a week until then.”

The slightly shit-eating grin on Enjolras’s face told him he was right. He sobered quickly, though. “I’m very sorry for what I said.”

“Jesus,” Grantaire groaned. “I know, it’s okay, Enjolras, really. Let’s just kiss and make up already, yes?”

Enjolras’s face had just gone back to its normal hue, but it rocked into red again. “Oh.”

Grantaire could not believe the audacity of his mouth. “It’s an expression! Just an expression! Please feel free to ignore everything coming out of my mouth forever.”

Enjolras pushed himself up on his knees, crawling forward on his hands, looking feline and tentative and too sexy, and Grantaire’s throat was drier than the Sahara. They were inches apart, maybe less. Grantaire’s heart was beating so hard his chest was aching, and he was sure his eyes were wide and nervous.

“Can I kiss you?” Enjolras asked, and Grantaire could physically feel the words across his lips. Enjolras’s hair was falling lazily out of his ponytail, and despite the redness in his cheeks and the slightly frantic look in his eyes, he looked angelic and sinful—a fallen angel—and Grantaire was somehow in heaven.

“I will literally cry if you don’t,” Grantaire choked out, and then Enjolras was swooping in, and sweeping him off his figurative feet.

Enjolras kissed carefully, and Grantaire was sure that it came from almost entirely academic knowledge of romance, but he was commanding, as passionate in this as he was in anything. He carefully reached up and wound his fingers in Grantaire’s curls, meticulously not disrupting his curl pattern, and the conscientiousness was almost as hot as Enjolras’s tongue swiping against his lips. Enjolras cared about his hair because Grantaire cared about his hair. Enjolras cared for him, period, full stop.

Grantaire sucked in a desperate, shocked breath, and Enjolras pulled away, still so careful, and sucked his bottom lip into his mouth anxiously. The lip emerged, wet and tantalizing and Grantaire was grossed out at how hot he found that. “Was that okay?” Enjolras whispered, pressing his forehead to Grantaire’s.

“Okay? Shit, I could fly.”

Enjolras laughed, a huffy little laugh, and he was grinning. Grantaire was so fucked. He leaned backwards, falling back into a cross-legged position. “I’m glad. And I want you to know, I’m going to learn to control my anger.”

Grantaire shrugged, helplessly. “Okay? Or, like, don’t? I’d like to keep kissing you, but that’s super not contingent on you changing anything about yourself. Honestly, you could decide that you were only going to yell at me, and I’d keep kissing you as long as you’d let me.”

Enjolras’s face morphed quickly from rapture to horrified incredulity, which Grantaire hadn’t really expected. He mentally rewound his words and winced.

“Remember, before? When I said to ignore everything coming out of my mouth forever? I meant that. That was a thing that I meant,” Grantaire said desperately, but the damage had been done.

The horrified look had softened, slightly, but Enjolras looked so uncomfortable and sad that Grantaire could have kicked himself. Enjolras shook his head. “Maybe we should just go to sleep.”

Grantaire sighed. “Yeah. Okay.” He felt around blindly for his scarf, and regretted ever opening his mouth. He was Icarus, and he had kissed the sun, and now he was in for the inevitable plummet. He wrapped his hair methodically, and excused himself to the bathroom, where he could brush his teeth, and try to keep from crying.

He was one for two.

When he came back out, Enjolras was asleep, or pretending to be, and Grantaire let him. If Enjolras didn’t want to face this, he couldn’t really begrudge him that. He was surprised, though, to wake up on his own without the shouting of a drunken Courfeyrac, and alone. Glancing at his phone in semi-dismay—he was dismayed his alarm hadn’t gone off, but it was honestly amazing to wake up without a headache—he realized he had overslept by over an hour and dressed himself the fastest he had ever in his life.

Enjolras had, at least, left him coffee. 

He rolled into the fair embarrassingly late, and was shocked to see Floreal sitting in his chair. She regarded him with a raised eyebrow. 

“Late night?” Floreal asked, grinning like a hyena.

“Fuck you,” he replied, then frowning. “Also thank you and I’m sorry.”

Floreal waved it off. “Sold a few prints for you. Also the red one. Up charged it a little bit. You’re welcome.”

Grantaire assumed it was a combination of being still asleep and shock, but it took him a solid twenty seconds to process what Floreal had told him. “What? You what?” His hands went to hair and he tugged, suddenly overwhelmed and exhausted. “Fuck. I was going to…fuck.”

Floreal stood up, and planted herself in front of him with one hand on her hip, extending a receipt to him. He looked at the number and balked. “I told you,” She said.

“I thought you said a little bit!” he hissed, snatching it out of her hand. It wasn’t quite twice the price he had listed, but it was very close.

Floreal patted him on the shoulder, a little condescendingly, but he supposed he had earned a little condescension. She began walking back to her booth, pausing to over her shoulder, “He wants you to deliver it tonight, I left you the address. Trust me.”

He nodded, because he did trust her, but it was honestly incomprehensible. He spent the rest of the morning in a daze, mourning the chance to bestow that particular painting on Enjolras, and being simultaneously annoyed and relieved at the significant drop in buyers for the last day. The relative peace gave him time to reflect, which was a dangerous pastime for Grantaire.

He went from, “last night it seemed like there were some miscommunications we should clear up,” to “Enjolras probably hates me and is going to tell all of our friends how awful I am and I am going to need to find new friends and new jobs and a new city to live in,” in under five minutes.

He guessed he looked panicked, because Floreal came up to him around lunch time and told him firmly to go. “Look,” she said, “There’s virtually no one here, and if I could handle both of our customers for twenty minutes yesterday, I can handle them again today. Go on, get.”

Grantaire stood, almost frantically, needing to go find Enjolras and try to salvage some part of this mess that his mouth had gotten him into. “Twenty percent. I’m giving you twenty percent of my sales from today.”

Floreal scoffed, rolling her eyes. “No you are not.”

“Yes,” Grantaire said, throwing on his jacket. He looked in her the eyes for a long moment, then realized he was going to lose. “Ten, then. Ten percent and a big hug.”

Floreal crossed her arm and stared him down. “You can buy me one of those pastries from yesterday and accept my friend request on facebook.” 

Grantaire nodded, acutely aware that she wasn’t about to let him give her more. With another, more decisive nod, he took off, heading for the patisserie first. He would buy sweets and surprise Enjolras, and mend their fences, and then Enjolras could go back to fixing the world, but maybe also continue looking at Grantaire like he thought Grantaire worthy of adoration.

He brought his box of sweets to the hotel, rushing through the doors and hoping it would become immediately apparent where the conference room was. It wasn’t. The entrance hall was massive and there were no clear signs pointing him to Enjolras’s exact location, which he realized was exactly what he had been expecting, and was also a really terrible plan.

“Grantaire! Hi!”

Grantaire turned slowly and came unexpected face to face with Marius, who was grinning in a not at all surprised kind of way, sitting on a bench and eating some sort of wrapped sandwich. “Marius, hi. I didn’t know you were here…?”

Marius laughed good-naturedly. “Enjolras must have forgotten to tell you. I’ve been his gopher-slash-assistant-slash-editor for the conference, since Courfeyrac and Combeferre were at a cousin's’ wedding.”

“Which one’s cousin?”

Marius shrugged, nonplussed. “I don’t know. I suspected Courfeyrac at first, but he’s more excitable, so really who knows; I suspect that he could be just as excited for Combeferre’s cousin's’ wedding as his own.” Marius patted the spot next to him on the bench a little awkwardly, and Grantaire sat, also a little awkwardly. Everything about Marius was a little awkward. “Enjolras told me about your art fair, I’m glad it’s going well.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, going for anything other than dismissive, and, he suspected, missing by a mile. “Speaking of, do you know where I can find our esteemed leader? I need to have a chat with him, and I brought chocolate backup in case things get hairy.”

Marius chuckled and patted Grantaire’s knee affectionately, which was weird, but he’d take it. He honestly liked Marius, even though he suspected they were always speaking vastly different languages. “I believe that chocolate does soothe the savage revolutionary, but I have to tell you that he’s in important talks right now.” Marius gesticulates aimlessly with his wrap. “I was banished from the conference room because it’s too private for my ears apparently.” He was smiling fondly, and didn’t seem at all bitter about being sent to the kid’s table, which was unfathomable to Grantaire.

“Oh. Well that sucks for me.” Grantaire felt suddenly hopeless and slumped a little on the bench. Why had he thought this would work? Why had he been so sure that Enjolras would be there, and would want to see him, and upon seeing him would fix everything that had gone wrong? Stupid magical thinking, really, and all he had to show for it was a box of pastries.

Marius put his hand on top of the box. “I can give these to Enjolras, when he’s done,” he said authoritatively, the effect only slightly ruined by the lettuce in his teeth. “I’ll tell him it’s from you, and I promise to only eat one.”

Grantaire chuckled, a tinge morosely. “You can absolutely have one, thank you, Marius. I should probably be headed out, though. If I’m not going to chat with our dear Apollo, then I could absolutely go for a cigarette and a sandwich. Thank you again,” he said, standing and depositing the box next to Marius. He made the universal “there’s something in your teeth” motion with his tongue, and Marius flushed, covering his mouth with his hand as he tried to rectify the situation.

He lowered his hand slowly, giving Grantaire the most grimace-y of smiles. Grantaire gave him a thumbs up. “I’ll try my hardest to get him back to you earlier tonight,” Marius added, smiling broadly now. He was fairly handsome in a mousey way. Grantaire could appreciate what Cosette and Eponine (and possible Jehan) could see in him, but distantly. His everything was focused solely on Enjolras, as gross and mushy and tiresome as that was.

“At least in time to say goodbye, if nothing else,” Grantaire replied and then rolled his eyes at himself. He didn’t have to be this fucking dramatic, he was almost sure. If they didn’t work this drama out in their shared airbnb, they could do it when they got back home, where they lived six blocks away from one another and saw each other once or twice a week, depending on Enjolras’s world saving schedule.

Marius’s frowned, head tilting to the side like a baffled puppy. “Goodbye? Are you leaving tonight?”

“Yeah. My things done tonight. I guess we never talked about that, which seems pretty stupid in retrospect.”

Marius nodded slowly. “I wouldn’t say stupid. But, yeah. He assumed you had one more night, I’m guessing because we do. In that case, I’ll make sure he gets back early. He has another whole day to do his work, and he’s been stressing about this all day.” Marius offered him another smile, but it was too late; he had already unleashed a new can of anxiety worms.

Stressing about it? Did that mean that Enjolras was worried because things had gone wrong, and if so, was the wrong part kissing Grantaire to begin with, or pulling away? Was he stressed because he knew that Grantaire was going to obsess about it like he always did, or because he was worried that Grantaire thought it was meant to be casual? Was he stressed because he thought Grantaire might not like him, or because he didn’t like Grantaire?

He thanked Marius again, less effusively this time, and walked outside for a cigarette. He called Feuilly, because Feuilly was practical and had very little time for emotions that weren’t coming from Bahorel.

“I’m in crisis mode,” he told Feuilly. “I am crisis-ing. I am a crisis.”

Feuilly sighed and took a long breath that told Grantaire he was probably mentally counting to ten. “I literally - and please note I unlike you am using the word literally literally - literally talked to Enjolras an hour ago about this, and so I have already dealt with this particular crisis once today and that is my limit.”

“I will buy you a carton of cigarettes and a bottle of gin, you gin drinking heathen,” Grantaire offered, trying to decide if he actually wanted to eat lunch, or if that would make the nauseous anxiety he was feeling worse.

“No deal,” Feuilly replied coolly. “I’m going to tell you what I told Enjolras, okay? Are you ready? Take a out a pen and some paper and take some fucking notes because this is happening once, my dude: fucking talk to him. Use your mouth words and tell him what you are thinking and feeling, then let him do the same thing back, then do it again, and again, until you’ve figured something out, okay? Now I’m hanging up, because unlike some people I have to actually work to earn a paycheck.”

The line went dead, which was fair. Feuilly had offered him exactly what he had expected when calling him. Joly and Jehan were both good for pity, and Cosette offered a mean pep talk, but no one made your problems seem less problematic than Feuilly.

Grantaire returned the exhibition hall feeling slightly less anxious, presented Floreal with her pastry, and waited impatiently for the day to end. He wrapped the red painting, unhappily but carefully, and tried not to stare it down through the butcher paper and bubble wrap. He felt like he was betraying Enjolras, which was insane. He didn’t even know for sure if Enjolras really liked the piece, and he would probably be suitably happy with a print.

The prospect of actually having a conversation with Enjolras had been made less horrifying by Feuilly, but without the bright light of anxiety surrounding him, he was floored by the new (and old, very, very old) sensation of feeling as though he was not good enough for Enjolras. If Enjolras did have amorous intentions, he would become almost instantaneously uninterested by Grantaire’s looks, his personality, his faults, and his flaws. Enjolras didn’t know him, not really, couldn’t have, when he had expended so much energy trying to keep Enjolras from truly knowing him.

He was going to get in his own way, like usual.

When the day finally, finally did end, Grantaire had to pack up his trunk, and then realized unhappily, that he’d have to lug his trunk and his backpack back to the airbnb to pack his suitcase, and then haul his ass somewhere else to deliver the fucking painting, and then back to the airbnb to get his stuff to actually leave, and maybe grab some food in there somewhere. He spared a moment to be mad at Floreal for adding more steps to his evening.

Glancing at the address, he realized it was fortunately on the same street as his airbnb, which at least made that step a lot easier. He dragged his trunk up and down the stairs of the metro, then up the stairs of the apartment, and typed in the code with all the force he could muster in a single finger, feeling exhausted and overwhelmed and in need of a nap.

Grantaire noticed, as the door swung open, that something smelled delicious, and then was greeted with the shocking visual of Enjolras stirring something on the stove, sweatshirt tied backwards around his waist like an apron.

Enjolras spun around, blushing, and brandishing the spoon like a knife. “R! I thought you wouldn’t be home for a while yet.”

Grantaire stood frozen for a long moment, before his arms reminded him that he needed to put the trunk down as soon as humanly possible. “Expecting someone?” he asked, probably sounding pathetically hopeful.

“Yes,” Enjolras replied plainly, tasting something off a spoon.

Grantaire’s stomach did a slow swan dive, like ice breaking off of glaciers and plummeting into the freezing water. He set down the trunk. “Oh. Okay, then. I’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes.”

“R,” Enjolras said impatiently, and Grantaire studiously avoided his gaze. “R, I was waiting for you. I cooked.”

Grantaire could feel himself blushing, embarrassment and self-consciousness warring on his face. He glanced up, and Enjolras was fixing him with a soft smile, which was lovely, and all the more embarrassing for it. “Oh. Well, if you’d like me to come back when it’s all finished, I have a piece of artwork to deliver.”

Enjolras smile turned cheeky. “That’s right! Do I need to sign for it?”

The floor dropped out from beneath Grantaire. “What?”

Enjolras’s smile flickered a little. “You looked at the address, right? You saw it and noted that it was the apartment we are staying in? You’re meant to present me with the painting and then I feed you dinner and then we have conversations.”

“With our mouth words,” Grantaire muttered, darkly.

“Ah, I see you spoke to Feuilly as well.” Enjolras adjusted the knob on the stove, then walked in three long strides to Grantaire’s side and took his hand. “Are you alright? Did I misread the situation?”

Grantaire shook his head, and then shook it again, a little unsure of what he was negating. He had never felt more uneasy in his life, like he was on a tightrope with a million ways to fall, painfully, and lose everything. “You spent too much on it, you know.”

Enjolras laughed. “Yeah, but there was an art critic there who was interested and so I had to out offer him.” His expression quickly turned pensive. “It’s occurring to me right now that I may have damaged your career.”

Grantaire shook his head again. He realized his words sounded somber but couldn’t remember how to change that. “No. I’d rather you have it any day.”

Enjolras’s mouth slid into a smile, warm and bright. “I’m likewise glad to have it. Dinner’s about ready? If you want to sit?”

Grantaire allowed Enjolras to lead him to the table, and sat down a little numbly. This was not going at all like he had pictured it, which was probably good. His mind tended to fixate and on the unrealistic—both bad and good—and any reality that wasn’t as bad as his worst-case scenario was better than he probably deserved. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“I can’t,” Enjolras admitted, spooning pasta onto two plates, then pouring them glasses of white wine from a bottle Grantaire hadn’t even seen. “But Jehan said that was unacceptable and then taught me how to make the one thing I know how to make by forcing me to do it over and over until it was good. So anyway, I hope you like alfredo.”

“I like everything.”

Enjolras set the plates in front of them and sat, brushing Grantaire’s ankle with his foot as he did so, and really, Grantaire was an adult, and weak footsie shouldn’t make him feel warm and float-y, but it absolutely did.

Grantaire took a bite to cover the fact that he felt mushy, and then had to stifle a moan. “This is incredible. How is this the only thing you can make?” It was, too. Better than some he had eaten in restaurants, which was bizarre if Enjolras couldn’t cook anything else.

Enjolras blushed a little. Which was good, Grantaire thought, he should be suffering too. “I could probably learn something else, to be honest, but it’s hard and took maybe five hours of straight cooking before I could do this reliably and I just don’t want to dedicate that time to cooking when I could be spending it on—”

“Justice?” Grantaire interrupted, grinning smarmy and smug.

Enjolras didn’t look mad like he normally did when Grantaire did that in meetings. Instead, he looked almost fond. Exasperated, but fond. “Yeah, basically.” He took a bite and chewed slowly, then said, “If I haven’t read this wrong, I’d really like to date you, R.”

Grantaire’s fork clanged noisily to the table. “Oh shit!” He scrambled to clean up the spilled alfredo, spilling more in the process. Grantaire’s heart was beating a mile a minute, and he felt dangerously close to panic. This was not how this went, this was not how the story went.

Enjolras’s hand shot across the table and he stilled Grantaire’s hand. “Grantaire?”

Grantaire shook his head, mutely. His heart was going to break free from his chest and flop onto the table, which was a really horrific image. “You barely know me. You don’t even like me.”

“Well,” Enjolras started, elongating the word. “I’ve thought you were attractive for quite some time.” He pointedly ignored the incredulous look on Grantaire’s face. “And do I know some things about you. I know you think art should be accessible to everyone, which is why you undersell your art, and why you teach free art classes on the weekend. I know you like white wine better than red, and I suspect it’s because you can’t let yourself enjoy things. I know that despite your whining, you’ve never missed participating in a single political action of ours. I know you like cats and dogs, but I suspect you like dogs better. I know you drink your coffee black, which is disgusting. I know I care for you, which is more about me than you, but still relevant. And I know that I am honored to have you as a friend.”

Grantaire’s whole mouth was dry, it was the sahara in his throat, he was going to die of dehydration, and then die again of somehow getting what he wanted. “You’ve used the word honored too many times this weekend,” he said hoarsely. “You’ve cheapened it now.”

Enjolras laughed, but it was slightly strained, and he loosened his hand around Grantaire’s, preparing to detach it carefully. Jesus, how had Grantaire already fucked this up so badly? He could have screamed, but he suspected that would have been counter-productive.

“Wait!” Grantaire clamped down on the hand tightly. “I—yes. Yes, let’s do it, let’s go on a date.”

“I think we’re already on one,” Enjolras said gently, gesturing at the wine and alfredo, which made sense to Grantaire, but was something that he absolutely would not have assumed.

“Another one. More. Infinite dates,” Grantaire babbled desperately, entirely sure he had missed the window to say yes.

“Okay,” Enjolras said, and wrapped his fingers back around Grantaire’s, reassuring and warm. Enjolras maybe actually liked him, which was baffling but amazing, and Grantaire was going to absorb as much affection as he could while he could. “Infinite dates. Can I kiss you?”

Grantaire’s face was split with a grin. He was never going to able to stop smiling at this point. He was going to smile himself into a early grave, and not regret a fucking moment. “Please.”

Enjolras leaned towards him and their lips met softly. Grantaire made an embarrassing noise, but Enjolras’s lips were like silk, and he was drowning in the sensation. Again. This was something he got to have, again. Who could believe it? He pressed in more firmly, biting at Enjolras’s lip and sucking it between his teeth. Enjolras gasped, which was gratifying, and when they parted, his bottom lip had been kissed rosy and Grantaire had done that.

“I’m going to work on my temper,” Enjolras told him again, breathless but firm. “But I need you to work on your self-esteem, or whatever it is that’s in your way. I like you, a lot, and I want you to feel comfortable telling me when I overstep. I need that, actually. It’s sort of a requirement. I’m not going to feel comfortable with you as my partner if I’m constantly doubting whether you want something or not.”

Despite the content of their conversation, Grantaire found himself grinning. “Partner?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and glared, looking more like an angry kitten than the leader of a revolution. “I’ve never been that comfortable with boyfriend. If you don’t like partner, I’m sure we can—”

Grantaire cut him off with a kiss. When he pulled away, he couldn’t help but reach out and run his fingertips on Enjolras’s smooth cheek. “Partner is fine. Partner is great, even.” Enjolras still looked mildly cross with him, and Grantaire gave in with a sigh. “I’ll try to work on my shit, too. But it’s not going to come naturally. I might need some help.”

Enjolras nodded, encouraging and focused and proud, which was so embarrassing that Grantaire was going to melt. “Okay. Let me know what you need.”

Grantaire winced. “Unfortunately what I need is probably to go? It’s getting late and I don’t want it to just be me and the weirdos and my trunk full of art on the train in the middle of the fucking night.”

Enjolras’s expression was one of practiced innocence, that spoke of him getting away with everything for his entire childhood. “You could stay the night. I’m here until tomorrow night, and it’s not like we’re bad a sharing a bed.”

“If you wanted in my pants you just had to say so,” Grantaire said, complete with skeazy wink and flirtatious eyebrow waggle.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to jump into that?” Enjolras said, a little softer, like there was any way Grantaire was going to reject him, ever, let alone now, when they were so fucking close. “But we could maybe cuddle, and kiss some more? Watch Chopped?”

“You like cooking shows, but you can’t cook?” Grantaire said, going back to his meal, which was cold but still delicious.

Enjolras kicked him under the table, but he was smiling and Grantaire could feel himself begin to giggle, which was mortifying, but he felt bubbly and light and giggly, and he was going to milk it for all it was worth. “Please, R.”

“Okay, I’ll stay the night,” Grantaire said decisively. “If you’ll have me.”

“Gladly,” Enjolras replied, and kissed him.

**Author's Note:**

> hello my name is gabe racetrackthehiggins and surprisingly I'm writing more as we speak, I'd love to hear from you/write ficlets for you! if you liked this and have some money to spare, I have a [kofi](https://ko-fi.com/A0113A9L) and I don't have a job so I'd appreciate that or just come talk to me on [tumblr](http://racetrackthehiggins.tumblr.com)


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